


An Undescribed Amount of Years and Counting

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Poisoning, Red Team focus, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: “They’re racing against time, and all of Red Team have to work together in order to save Grif!"”…But that is fiction, right?“ Carolina says, just mildly horrified. "That’s not something that is happening right now?""Uhmmm,” says Matthews.When half of Gold Team gets poisoned by tragic and egoistic circumstances, Simmons’ love confession has a countdown.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 46
Kudos: 145





	1. Cupbearer

Kimball had, in a formal but not so polite manner, already described Gold Team as rather useless. This is all the be blamed on their captain, of course, as Grif’s lack of leadership can be found in the various evaluations.

Gold Team fails in actually hitting their targets and reducing enemy numbers. They do, however, have surprisingly few casualties on their team. But that is mostly due to Captain Grif ordering a retreat before any of their missions could be completed, much to Kimball’s growing frustration.

But while Gold Team lacks any theoretical and physical skills, they turn out to have one valuable habit – they always bring back food.

And that is how Gold Team becomes in charge of scavenging. The Army of Chorus desperately needs the supplies, and Grif proves to be a pure bloodhound when it comes to finding something edible.

Gold Team is pleased with this arrangement as well. It involves fewer bullets and grenades, and instead, it provides opportunities for well-deserved snacking.

There’s a hierarchy to that. Grif will break open a crate, grab two handfuls of whatever is inside and gulf it down, claiming _Captain’s Dibs_ on the good stuff. Bitters will usually empty any open cans or small packages, grabbing an unopened one for himself if he can.

At this point, Matthews will be driven by a guilty conscience and will clear away any evidence and close the crates so that Kimball will never find out. They never take enough for anyone to notice. Just enough to stop Grif’s stomach from rumbling on the way home. That’s the definition of _enough_.

The day when their secret is revealed, Grif opens two cans of halved peaches. He empties one by himself, shares the other with Bitters.

Matthews closes the crate.

Grif collapses before he can get into the driver’s seat.

Bitters falls against the steering wheel halfway on their panicked race back to Armonia.

* * *

“Wait,” Simmons says, swallowing. “Are you saying Grif is dying?”

“No!” Sarge barks over the radio.

“Phew. Okay, good I-“

“I said he was kicking the bucket. Buying the farm. Pushing up daisies. Meeting his maker. Falling into the eternal frying pan-“

“Aren’t we all?” Donut sighs, joining the conversation.

“No,” says Simmons.

“But in the long run-“

“No, Donut. I mean, yes, but not know- Just who said Grif is dying?”

“Sarge did!”

“Yes, but before that, Donut!”

There is a low chuckle. “Doctor Grey gave me a teaser of what’s gonna become a promising autopsy. Oh, I’m clapping my hands from bare excitement.”

“Okay, Grey said it,” Simmons concludes, relieved that the source was not only a medical professional but the smartest person on Chorus. “She probably just took a blood test or something. That UNSC medic passed out when he saw cholesterol level. I mean, theoretically speaking, Grif should have died years ago.”

“I’m going to buy popcorn,” Sarge says. “I’ll meet you at the ICU.”

That’s not where they discuss your chances of having diabetes. Simmons blinks.

“Wait, what?”

* * *

Grif can’t run because he’s hooked up to several machines that secretly scare Simmons shitless. That, and the fact that Grif doesn’t _do_ running.

Still, he can see Grif squirm in his hospital bed as they crowed his rooms. Blue Team and the Freelancers aren’t in Armonia right now; they’re out doing something _blue_ , like killing people and blowing stuff up.

“You aren’t supposed to eat the supplies!” Simmons scolds Grif.

Grif closes his eyes. “Who snitched?”

“Matthews,” Simmons says with no hesitation. “He’s crying outside the door, by the way.”

“Oh.”

“Also, he asked if he can be promoted to Lieutenant if Bitters dies.”

Donut drops into the chair on the other side of Grif’s bed. “But we told him to wait and see if you died first.”

“Vultures. The lot of you.” Grif squints in annoyance as the room goes dark, then bright, then dark, then bright. “Sarge, stop trying to unplug me; that’s just the light switch.”

Sarge lets out a dissatisfied noise, and Grey appears to shove a datapad into his hands. “You can look at these scans of how ruined his organs are!” she chirps happily.

“Oooh!” Sarge’s eyes widen like the ones of an entertained toddler. He begins to move away without removing his eyes from the screen. “Can I get copies?”

“You might want to wait for later scans when his health undoubtedly looks worse.”

“Can I get another doctor?” Grif groans. Despite the heavy blanket, there is sweat on his forehead. Simmons notices the drops against the weirdly pale skin. “This one is bad for my morals.”

Grey comes to join them at the bed. “Well, we’ve ruled out food poisoning.”

“I thought that was obvious,” Simmons cannot help but say.

“Apparently you didn’t look at just when those peaches expired. It’s quite horrifying, really. It’s not food poisoning. It’s poisoning of the food.”

Simmons nods like he understands. “Huh.”

“See the hole?” Grey holds up a can before Donut can comment on that question. The label reads _Peaceful Peaches – Peaceful Since 2267_. Simmons knows that’s the culprit – well, the real culprits are the pirates who came up with this plan. Grey’s finger points at a small hole near the top of the can, like someone stabbed it with a pencil. “They must have injected something in there. The question is what.”

“The plague!” Sarge barks from the other end of the room.

“Probably not.”

The guessing game stops there when Grif lets out a painful noise and almost falls over the side of the bed. Donut holds up a bucket just in time for Grif to shove his head into it. His entire body shakes as he spits up what looks to be mostly water. Simmons holds himself tighter.

“Well, that’s an unspeakable color,” Donut says after making the mistake of looking into the bucket. He wrinkles his nose.

Simmons turns towards Grey. “Isn’t it good – that he’s throwing up the poison?”

“Considering this is the eighth time he’s vomited-“

“I think I just threw up last year’s Christmas turkey,” Grif groans weakly.

“-and this is the third time he’s actually hit the bucket, I think we should consider it a sign of deteriorating health.”

Simmons licks his lips. “So what’s the next step?” he finally asks.

“Cremation,” Sarge answers.

Donut shakes his head. “I think burial.”

“Can’t we just put me in isolation?” Grif asks. He’s staring at the ceiling. Some of the vomit-water has dried on his chin. “For the sake of my mental health?”

“The next step is to identify the poison, so I can craft an antidote,” Grey says. “I need someone to keep emptying his bucket while I get my hands on the quite so messy tests.”

“I’ll do it,” Simmons says before he can even think about it. Grif’s eyes are closed now, so Simmons directs his stare towards someone else. He shrugs. “I survived flu season in Red Base. He looked worse then.”

* * *

“Okay, you look worse now,” Simmons admits later that evening when Grif’s skin has turned grey and there are tremors all over his body.

“I feel worse,” Grif says and collapses against his pillow. “It’s not contagious, right?”

“No. I mean, Bitters has it, but Matthews snitched he ate from the cans too. He’s not as bad off as you, though. Mainly because you ate more poison, you greedy bastard. I told you not to snack unauthorized!”

“I was hungry.”

“And now you’re dying. Pick and choose, Grif.”

Pain seeps into Grif’s expression, and he stays quiet while biting his lip.

“Leg seizure?” Simmons asks and receives a quiet nod. It’s not the first time Grif has suffered through that tonight. Apparently, the poison is doing _something_ to his muscles. And whatever it is, it is painful. “Here,” Simmons says and lets his left hand rest on the mattress. “It’s made of metal anyway.”

Grif grasps it right away, holding it so tightly that Simmons actually wonders if he will find dents in the metal afterward. There’s not much he can do but wait. For a moment he considers wiping the sweat off Grif’s forehead, but his free hand only twitches.

Finally, the tension seems to leave Grif’s shoulders, and he collapses as the seizure passes. He’s gasping for air.

“Need the bucket?” Simmons asks tentatively.

Grif shakes his head. “I feel like my insides are dying.”

“They probably are.”

Grif goes quiet after that. Simmons gets that, but there’s not much to do but watch Grif’s heartbeat and oxygen levels, and all that is just making Simmons feel depressed. He doesn’t want Grif nodding off on him, unsure of what will come with the unconsciousness, and so he disturbs Grif’s peace by asking, “Did they taste good?”

“Huh?” Grif opens one eye.

“The peaches. Did they at least taste good?”

“Yeah.” Grif has let go of Simmons’ hand, and he slowly turns to lie on his side. After a moment of hesitation, the metal hand touches his brow carefully. Grif leans into the touch and looks up at him, “Don’t guilt trip. I’m a fucking hero.”

Simmons exhales.

“I am!” Grif insists. His voice is hoarse after all the vomiting. “If I hadn’t sacrificed myself by being a cupbearer, half of Armonia would be dying now. My death won’t be in vain.”

“Don’t glamorize yourself; you just got hungry. That’s a very egocentric reason.” Simmons looks away as he adds, “Also, you’re not dying. Grey is working on it.”

* * *

An hour later, Simmons receives a call. It goes like this:

“Hold on; Tucker is calling on the radio,” Simmons says to Grif, very gently. Then he barks at Tucker: “What?!”

“Grif isn’t answering my calls. I have this bow-chicka-wow-wow I’ve been holding in all day because Wash won’t appreciate it. It needs to be shared with someone who can recognize my genius.”

“He’s _busy_.”

“Busy what?”

“Dying.”

“Aren’t we all,” Donut sighs, having joined the channel.

“Donut, shut the fuck up about your mid-life crisis. You’re not even forty!”

“Well, in this war, I might not even make it to forty! One can of poisoned peaches and thirty is your new forty!”

“What?” Tucker asks.

“Get off the channel, Donut!”

Maybe he does what he’s told, or maybe the pink soldier just stays quiet.

Tucker speaks up next: “But what about the whole dying thing? Man, that’s why Sarge sounded so happy earlier.”

“Sarge called you?” Simmons asks.

“It’s Monday. He always does prank calls on Monday.”

“Huh.”

Bad shit always happens on Mondays.

“But about Grif dying?” Tucker pushes.

“Oh yeah. He- _GRIF_!”

Simmons hangs up as Grif arches from the bed, entire body bowed. His chest tries to reach the ceiling while his head is burried deep into the pillow. His eyes are close, jaw as tense as every other muscle in his body.

Something snaps, loud enough for Simmons to hear.

He screams for Grey.

* * *

While another doctor whisks away Grif (to deal with what may be a broken vertebra because Grif’s abused body is not a big fan of seizures), Grey gathers the others for a really shitty team meeting.

She starts with the good news:

“It’s prass root,” she says.

Simmons blinks. He still knows very little about Chorus – with the exception of which areas to avoid due to pirate presence, and which areas are safe – and basically nothing about the plant Grey is showing on her datapad.

“Are we supposed to know what that is?” he asks.

“Not unless you’re a biologist who’s researched in the flora of Chorus.” Grey laughs. “It’s a flower and can be found in cold temperature. Easy to spot in the snow with its red and orange leaves. It’s, however, small and, as expected, only grows in the northern parts, especially near Lake Forna.”

Simmons knows of that.

That is the bad news.

“Isn’t that enemy territory?” he asks.

“Yes. And to make matter worse, the others are in the opposite direction. We could call them back, but by the time they reach Chorus, you guys could have reached the lake. And time is of the essence.” Grey tilts her head, staring at all of them, even if Simmons is the only one talking. “But no pressure. If you fail to bring me a specimen, I can always write a scientific paper on how the plant damages the muscular systems. But I’d prefer my breakthrough to be a sample of the first antidote. I’d advise you to get moving.”

Simmons inhales before daring to ask, “What’s gonna happen if we’re too late?”

And there comes the worse news.

* * *

And so Simmons is taught three things:

The poison in Grif’s system is working faster than them right now.

Transplanted organs are not a big fan of poison (and neither are normal organs, just to clear that up).

The heart’s a muscular organ.

* * *

While Red Team prepares for the trip, Simmons sits by Grif’s bedside.

It’s where he belongs. It’s not that he appreciates the germs practically dripping from Grif’s sweaty body, but he’s the one used to deal with Grif’s messes. He can wipe his forehead, empty his bucket, hold his hand.

It’s not gay when the other person is dying.

Simmons is sure Grif would agree with that, but Grif is asleep right now, and so Simmons sits in silence and stares at the heart monitor.

This is where he should be. Just in case things get worse, which, according to Grey, is bound to happen.

It’s not like he can help, but at least Grif will have someone to bitch to when his lungs start to give out or something.

This is the right decision, Simmons thinks and wishes Grif was awake to argue with him.

His radio crackles.

“Should I bring the red-spotted pot or the hanging planter?” Donut’s voice asks.

Simmons sighs and knows what Grif would say.

He has to go with the idiots.


	2. Leave a Message

No news is good news. Unless, of course, the lack of news is, in fact, bad because the people who should deliver the news are dead. Or something.

So Simmons is being very positive while trying not to stumble into his death. The lake is on the other side of the mountain range, and they’d be spotted right away. Lopez had landed rather gracefully on a plateau and had remained behind in the ship, preparing to pick them up quickly the moment they had their hands on a flower.

Which brings us to this situation: three Reds on a snowy mountainside, trying not to lose their balance while telling themselves everything is fine.

When his radio makes a noise, Simmons almost falls over. Just almost.

“Captain Simmons,” Jensen’s voice lisps inside his helmet.

“Jensen,” he says dully. He feels ready to faint. “Ohmygodwearetoolate.”

There is a loud stage sob from Donut while Sarge clutches confetti in his hand.

Another voice cuts in, cheerful and painfully loud. “Nah. We’re just bored,” Palomo says.

Simmons sighs so his shoulder tremble and pretends not to see the confetti fly in the wind. “Where’s Grif?”

“Well, that’s inconsiderate,” Palomo scolds him. “You should be asking: _how_ is Grif?”

“IS HE FUCKING DEAD OR NOT?”

“Not. Just aslee- Wait! No, I checked his pulse. He’s really just asleep. Guy’s a really heavy sleeper.”

Simmons wants to strangle Tucker’s lieutenant so much, his hands are shaking. “Jensen, you’re the only one allowed to use my channel from now on.”

He can practically imagine her giving him the salute. “Yes, sir.”

He shuts down the call and tries to ignore how his heart is trying to break out of his chest. He curses under his breath. “I’ll be the one in the hospital for a goddamn heart attack-“

This time, Simmons does fall over. The ice under his left foot crumbles, and there goes Simmons, sliding over the edge, falling-

His fingers are outstretched – was this how Grif had felt back then? – and they instinctively close around the nose of the shotgun stretched towards him.

Simmons holds on with all his might, whimpering.

He tilts his head back to stare at Sarge leaning over the edge.

“Eep,” Simmons says. “Sir, please remove your finger from the trigger.”

“Why are you asking for the impossible, Simmons?”

With some help from Donut, they pull back him onto steady ground. The pink soldier immediately starts to brush away snow from Simmons’ armor.

“My gosh, that would have been a sudden and unsatisfying death!” Donut exclaims. “Try to last longer, Simmons.”

They continue after that, watching their step more carefully. Simmons is quiet, thinking about death. How horrible it must be to die. It had to really suck, just having your life taken away from you like that. Nothing you can do about it. Just- falling.

Most of all, he thinks about Grif.

Eventually, he calls Jensen.

“Captain?”

Simmons swallows. “Is Grif still sleeping?”

“Yessir,” she says. There’s a brief pause. “Should I wake him up?”

“No. Just- wanted to see if he was following the rest schedule Grey gave him.”

“She said to get as much rest as possible.”

“Exactly.” Simmons nods even though she can’t see it. “When he wakes up, can you- EEP!”

A bullet digs into the cliff right next to his head.

“Sir? I might need you to repeat that.”

“Just a minute!”

Simmons hangs up and dives behind the rock Sarge and Donut are using as cover. When they peek over it, they can see the pirates on the level below, aiming their rifles at them.

“How could they possibly spot us?” Sarge laments. “Our red armor against the white snow is a perfect camouflage!”

“How?!” Simmons asks, clutching his gun. “Just what are we blending in as?!”

“Bloodstains, of course!” Sarge replies with no hesitation.

“Which bloodstains?!”

“These.”

Sarge throws a grenade above them, and they watch as it explodes, tearing rocks from the cliff side which the gravity grabs, causing them to slide down and down and down – onto the pirates who are still wasting their bullets.

When the dust has cleared, they peek over the edge again. The pirates are gone, replaced by rocks with red seeping through the cracks.

“Oh,” Simmons says. “Right.”

* * *

Sure, they’d failed at going in undetected, but that is nothing new for Red Team. Plus, it isn’t the biggest tragedy. There is a distance between the rockslide and the lake, and so the camp itself is yet to be notified of their arrival. Unless the dead pirates contacted them before they started shooting. That’s a possibility.

But now, staring down at the camp, it doesn’t seem too alive. Just pirates, marching around in their dark armor, entering and exiting buildings, carrying crates, undoubtedly chuckling evilly among themselves.

“Do you see the flower, Donut?” Simmons whispers. After all, Donut is the only Red with expertise in picking flowers. They are all pressed against the ground to avoid getting spotted. Again.

“Mhmmm. No,” Donut says. “But let me have a closer look-“

“Sir?” Jensen’s voice says and Simmons jumps in surprise. He really should mute these calls (he really, really should).

“Jensen.”

She breathes out in relief. He can hear the spit flying through the air. “Oh good.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you kinda hang up with what sounded like a death-eep-“

Simmons frowns. “A death-eep?”

“Yes, and we weren’t sure if we should tell Captain Grif if you’re dead or not- But, if you do die, we’ve come to the ethical decision not to tell him so he can at least die hopeful and at peace.”

“Wow, that is way more asshole-ish than you think it is, Jensen,” Grif’s voice says, distant and hoarse and worn and tired.

It matters so much to Simmons he almost tunes out Donut talking about a lovely shade of orange and maroon. But he knows what that means, and despite everything, it’s more important.

“I have to go – I’ll call you back.”

Donut has spotted a cluster of the flower at the edge of the camp, farthest away from their position. Their brilliant plan is to split up in order to get between the buildings without raising any alarm.

Simmons is crouched behind a metallic crate when he hears footsteps coming closer. There’s a pistol in his hands and a knife on his thigh and fury in his heart. He can’t be scared right now.

“-I’m telling you, once they hear I killed all of Chorus with my poison tactic, they will promote me.”

“But didn’t Felix specifically tell us he wants to kill the captains himself?”

“…A dead captain is a good captain, right?”

“You’re so dead yourself.”

Yes, you are, Simmons thinks. He lets the pirates pass before he dares to crawl away. He’d love to take care of them, shoot them in their back, stab them if they turn around, but there is a countdown which is Grif’s heart (or maybe it’s Simmons’ heart – that part is confusing really, figuratively and not), and Simmons has to deal with that.

He has to find the flower.

Simmons has almost snuck past the final guard when he hears shouting from the other end of the camp. 

People are running now, and Simmons- Simmons is about to do the same thing but then his radio crackles again.

“NOT NOW, JENSEN!”

“But you said you’d call back-“

“ _I’mbusybye_ ,” Simmons screams and that’s true; the pirates have noticed him now, and Simmons is very much busy pulling his trigger-

Pain flares up in his leg. His left leg, Simmons realizes, because he can’t feel the warmth that always accompanies blood. Instead, it just hurts and throws him off balance.

It’s rather impressive how he avoids the bullets by tumbling down the hill, but it remains an ungraceful sight.

By the time Simmons lands, helmet pressed against the snow, he feels like Carolina’s training dummy.

“Ow, my entire body,” he groans in defeat. He raises his head to stare at an orange and red flower, right in front of him.

His ears are ringing, and it takes him a moment to realize the call is still going on.

“It’s an emergency, sir,” Jensen lisps, deadly serious.

The world comes to a halt. Simmons both knows and fears what she is about to say.

“Ow,” he whispers. “My heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're staying safe. corona hit my family but i'm glad to say all family members have recovered. still, it's a scary time. stay indoors, wash hands, you know the drill. Denmark is slowly opening up. somehow, that feels more scary than when we shut it down.
> 
> one chapter left, and we still have so much going on!


	3. Beep!

“Sir?”

The voice was like another nail into his skull, joining the rest. Grif is surprised his brain isn’t spilling onto the floor. The headache is _crushing_ him. Even worse than the tank.

Grif struggles to open his eyes.

“Sir?”

There it is again. It’s like being stabbed all over his body. Someone should just hit the heart and get it over with at this point.

Finally, his eyelids respond, but the world is still blurry.

There’s a face in front of him.

“Do you want me to hold your hand, sir?”

“Matthews,” Grif croaks, recognizing the source of his pain.

His wrist is squeezed. “It’s me, sir,” Matthews says breathlessly. “I’m right here.”

“Come closer.”

“Captain Grif?”

His throat feels like it’s bleeding, but Grif manages to whisper, “Fuck out of my room.”

As Matthews’ shoulders sink in disappointment, Smith crosses his arms. “I warned you: all captains but Captain Caboose values their personal space.”

Jensen’s tone is kinder. “Maybe you can go watch over Bitters instead?”

“No,” Matthews whines. “It’s not the same.”

From behind the divider, Bitters’ hoarse voice calls, “I can hear you.”

A recent accident involving a malfunctioning grenade and headlight fluid has flooded the hospital with new patients, and Grey has moved the two poisoning cases together to spare her from the constant pacing between the rooms.

Grif moves his head, feeling like his neck might just snap, to glare at Grey who has their back turned towards them as she leans over a desk.

“Can’t you send them out?” he asks.

“It appears you haven’t noticed but I am _very_ busy,” Grey replies. “It’s nice to have someone ready to tell me if your heart is giving out.”

Before Grif can protest, Matthews is holding his wrist again. “Checking his pulse right now, sir- lady- DOCTOR!”

“161 beats per minute,” Jensen says with a lisp and no hesitation.

Panic flashes across Matthews’ face. “Hold on, the minute hasn’t passed yet. I’m still counting-“

“The machine says so,” Jensen says and points at the monitor.

Matthews lets go. “Oh.”

Grey leaves, taking a datapad with her.

On the nearby table, the Grif’s helmet, abandoned on the bed table, beeps. Palomo and Matthews both spring into action, tackling each other in the process. “I’LL TAKE IT!”

Matthews’ elbow comes in contact with Palomo’s chin, and the latter falls to the floor, nursing the battle injury.

“I’m the final representative of Gold Team. _I_ will take it,” Matthews says proudly and pics up the helmet. “Hallo? Yes, this is Matthews, contemporary Lieutenant of Gold Team.”

“I’m chopped liver, aren’t I?” Bitters groans weakly.

“Okay?” Carolina asks, obviously confused, from the other end of the line. “Has Grif agreed to this?”

“Captain Grif is out of commission right now.”

“Yes. Tucker mentioned that. It’s why I’m calling.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t be nervous! We’ve made a plan, and I’m sure they’re doing well.”

“’We’? ’They’?”

Matthews nods as if she can see it. “They’re racing against time, and all of Red Team have to work together in order to save Grif!"

“…But that is fiction, right?“ Carolina says, just mildly horrified. "That’s not something that is happening right now?"

"Uhmmm,” says Matthews.

Behind him, Jensen leans closer to the hospital bed, hovering over the patient. “Captain Grif?” she asks, lisp dripping with worry.

Grif is tense again, sweat dripping from his brow. “S’fine,” he says, slurring.

“He’s fine,” Matthews says just a bit too loud and hangs up before Carolina can say another word.

When the cramp finally passes, Grif decides to fuck it all and black out. The lieutenants (and Matthews. Let’s not forget Matthews) watch as he slumps against the pillow.

“He looks peaceful when sleeping,” Matthews says.

They all cringe but Palomo is the one to speak their thoughts out loud: “For once I finally get to say it: that just sounds creepy.”

Grif sleeps and they forget to check on Bitters, so that leaves them with literally nothing to do. Matthews stares at Grif, whimpering every once in a while. Palomo tries to get Smith to wrestle thumbs with him, while Jensen keeps a track of Grif’s monitor. Bitters rots in his bed.

“I wonder how they’re doing,” Jensen speaks out loud.

“We could ask them,” Smith suggests and stares at her until she gives in. She’s the only one with a Red, conscious Captain at the moment.

“Captain Simmons.”

It takes a moment before his voice appears inside her helmet. “Jensen,” he gasps, and before she can explain herself, he goes: “Ohmygodwearetoolate.”

“Nah. We’re just bored,” Palomo says, joining the channel.

A moment passes before Simmons asks, “Where’s Grif?” His voice is tense enough for Jensen to flinch.

“Well, that’s inconsiderate,” Palomo scolds him. “You should be asking: _how_ is Grif?”

“IS HE FUCKING DEAD OR NOT?”

Simmons’ voice is loud enough to make Jensen’s ears ring, but not loud enough to wake up Grif.

Palomo moves closer to the bed. “Not. Just aslee- Wait! No, I checked his pulse. He’s really just asleep. Guy’s a really heavy sleeper.”

Simmons’ sigh is louder than his voice. “Jensen, you’re the only one allowed to use my channel from now on.”

“Yes, sir,” Jensen says and gives him a salute, only to realize he can’t see it. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts.

When the captain has ended the call, Palomo is glaring at her. “Why are you always the favorite?”

“Because I’m _his_ lieutenant.”

“This is boring,” Palomo whines over the beeping of the heart monitor. “There’s nothing to do.”

“I asked you to bring me water five minutes ago,” Bitters says.

No one hears him.

“Did anyone bring cards?” Palomo asks, and Smith, prepared as always, did.

They play (Palomo wins zero times, Smith three times, and Jensen seven times) and Palomo is the middle of accusing Jensen of cheating when Simmons calls her. She shushes at Palomo and holds a hand to the side of her helmet.

“Captain?”

“Is Grif still sleeping?” Simmons asks.

“Yessir. Should I wake him up?”

“No. Just- wanted to see if he was following the rest schedule Grey gave him.”

Jensen tilts her head. “She said to get as much rest as possible.”

“Exactly. When he wakes up, can you- EEP!”

That’s a painful sound, and Jensen cringes behind the visor. “Sir? I might need you to repeat that.”

“Just a minute!”

The Lieutenants (minus Bitters, plus Matthews) share a glance.

“Is anyone taking time?” Palomo asks.

A minute later (when Smith has counted the sixty seconds), Palomo sighs gravely. “I knew it was a death-eep.”

“It could just be a surprised eep,” Jensen says.

“No. That one definitely had death to it.”

Smith shakes his head. “You should have more trust in the captains, Palomo.”

“I will call him,” Jensen decides before a word can come out of Palomo’s open mouth. The radio just gives her static for a while. “Sir?”

“Jensen,” Simmons’ voice says.

“Oh good.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you kinda hang up with what sounded like a death-eep-“

“A death-eep?”

“Yes, and we weren’t sure if we should tell Captain Grif if you’re dead or not- But, if you do die, we’ve come to the ethical decision not to tell him so he can at least die hopeful and at peace.”

“Wow, that is way more asshole-ish than you think it is, Jensen.”

The voice is weak and hoarse and barely audible, and they all turn around in surprise to see that Grif has awakened.

Jensen can hear her captain swallow. “I have to go – I’ll call you back.”

Unsure of how to tell Grif that Simmons hung up on him, Jensen offers him a glass of water instead. “How are you feeling, Sir?”

Grif doesn’t answer. He shakes his head when she holds the glass closer, but that’s about it. Against the white pillow, his skin is practically grey.

A minute passes where they watch his fist clench and unclench.

“He called back yet?” Grif asks. “Simmons?”

Jensen is leaning closer to his head just to hear his words. “I’m sure he’ll have time in just a minute, sir,” she says and wipes sweat off his forehead.

When Grif closes his eyes with a pained sigh, they all share a look again.

“Do you want us to call Doctor Grey?” Jensen asks the captain.

Again, there’s no answer. He’s trembling all over the body now, and it reminds Jensen of broken motors struggling to stay alive.

“Let’s go call Doctor Grey!” Palomo says, dragging out the word to see if Grif hears him. If he does, he’d surely wake up and bitch at him. “I’m sure Grif won’t mind.”

There’s no answer, and a damning silence falls upon the room.

“Go fucking get her,” Bitters growls from his bed.

Smith leaves, and Jensen tries calling Simmons. 

“NOT NOW, JENSEN!”

“But you said you’d call back-“

“ _I’mbusybye_.”

Jensen looks around helplessly and notices that Grif is awake now, having opened his eyes at the sound of Simmons’ yell.

She gets eye-contact and understands. “I’ll call him again, Captain,” she says.

Grif’s eyelids are drooping.

It takes too long before Simmons answers again.

“It’s an emergency, sir.”

* * *

Simmons is pressing a hand against his chest plate, staring at the flower, listening.

“I think he wants to talk to you,” Jensen lisps.

But what’s more important is the labored breathing he hears next. He recognizes it, of course. That part is easy.

“Hey, Grif,” Simmons says gently.

“Simmons.”

Grif is so quiet he can barely hear it, and it doesn’t help when a pirate tackling him. Simmons curses in annoyance and stabs him in the guts.

“Hey,” he says, feeling all warm, and it’s not just the warmth from the blood that keeps spreading with each stab. The pirate stopped moving a while ago.

“Hey,” Grif whispers back.

“We are-“ Simmons cuts himself off, pretty sure Grif had just been trying to say something. He shoots the pirate who suddenly falls over a nearby crate and says, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Grif struggles to breathe on the other end. Then:

“There are pumas on Chorus.”

A grenade explodes behind him. Sarge cheers.

“Wait,” Simmons says. “What?”

“Kimball says so,” Grif insists. His words are slurred. “Gotta show Sarge.”

“Yeah. Yeah!” Simmons says, smiling like a madman and firing his gun. “We’ll go find one and- and hopefully don’t get eaten in the process.”

There’s a weak laughter that turns into a moan.

Simmons gulps.

He remembers quite vividly the time they’d been standing in front of a firing squad. He couldn’t say it then. They’d lived, though, so he couldn’t regret it that much.

But now…

Who knew?

War sucks, and so do poisonous flowers.

“Grif, I-“

Simmons doesn’t finish, and it’s not his fault. It’s the pirate who slams into him, knocking them both to the ground, and it’s a pure miracle they don’t land on the flower. The asshole reaches for his gun but Simmons sticks his knife into his throat first.

“Donut!” Simmons yells, and two seconds afterward, a pot lands in his lap. He digs up the flower with his hands, careful to include the roots. He supposes it’s pretty (he’s always liked the color orange) but it’s killing Grif, so he can’t like it. As the battle has begun to die around them, he calls Jensen, “I have the flower! Grif, I have the flower, we’re coming back-“

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jensen (not Grif!) says. “Grey moved him for surgery. To help him breathe.”

Not dead. That’s the most important part of that conversation.

“Call me when he wakes up,” Simmons says.

“Sir.”

Simmons isn’t stupid. He’s rather proud of the fact. So he’s smart enough to know that Grif won’t wake up before he’s given an antidote.

In the distance, Sarge shoots his shotgun twice and laughs. Then it’s over.

Simmons stands up and presses the pot against his chest. “Let’s move.”

* * *

Facing a challenge is much like climbing a mountain.

Especially in this case because they are, quite literally, climbing a mountain.

They’ve called Lopez but they get nothing but static (the camp must have a jamming device, Simmons concludes and kicks a dead pirate. It doesn’t make him feel better), so they are going back the way they came from.

Which is over a mountain.

It’s snowing, too.

Simmons decides that today _sucks_ , and at this rate, he might as well just slip over the edge and both he and Grif will be dead because things _suck_ , and nothing ever goes their face _because there’s a fucking mountain in the way_.

He wipes snowflakes away from his visor, tries not to think of Grif, stumbles, tries not to think of Grif, loses his balance on a patch of ice, tries not to think of Grif, curses, and tries not to think of Grif.

What if he drops the flower?

What if the flower just dies from the cold?

What is Grif dies before they get there?

“Stupid,” Simmons says and sniffs.

Donut, blinded by the snow, walks into him. “Simmons?” he asks, confusion and worry in his voice.

“Stupid piece of shit mountain!” Simmons yells through the storm and stomps a foot. “A mountain! We are literally climbing a mountain! There’s a mountain in the way, and we are supposed to be racing back to Grif but we can’t do that because, oh fuck, a mountain!” He marches forward with a bitter laugh as if they could reach their goal. “We are gonna stumble and fall and die before we can-“

There’s a loud _smack_ , and Simmons collapses after having walked face first into the aircraft Lopez just landed.

* * *

Simmons wakes up before they reach Armonia. Maybe that’s a good thing. It saves him from wringing his hands anxiously the whole ride.

Grey takes the flower and disappears. That’s okay. The lieutenants leave too so that Simmons can sink into the chair by Grif’s bedside. There’s dried blood on his armor but who cares.

Simmons has decided that he wants to say, and he knows that Grif can’t answer him. A) he’s asleep. B) there’s a tube in his throat. C) Simmons is pretty sure he might leave Grif speechless if he could hear him.

So it’s almost a shame that Grif misses out on Simmons leaning close against his face and telling him, “Love you.”

For some stupid reason, Simmons hopes for something to happen. But when he opens his eyes, Grif is still half-dead in front of him.

“Heard that,” Bitters groans from the other end of the room.

* * *

Grif wakes up and thinks the tank has run him over again.

It’s alright, though. Like before, Simmons has saved his ass.

“Morning,” the cyborg says, sitting in the chair by his side. It’s not the first time Grif has woken up, but his brain is too tired to keep track of the days. But Simmons is looking better. Smiling. Relaxed. Happier than Grif has seen him in a while.

Grif’s throat is still too sore to speak, but he’s been told it’ll heal. It’ll be alright, Simmons has promised him, and Grey injects him with needles every day to make sure that is true.

With no words, Grif gestures towards the datapad that Simmons refuses to let go of.

“Updating your schedule,” Simmons answers, understanding his question with no problems. It’s easy when they know each other this well.

Grif raises an eyebrow. He’s pretty sure that being bed-bound should keep his schedule clear for a while.

“Just adding our dates in your calendar,” Simmons explains. “Place and time, and three extra notifications so you don’t sleep in. I know you.”

Grif’s heart skips a beat. The damn monitor actually shows it.

Simmons just said the word ‘dates’. ‘Our dates’. Without blushing or passing out or denying any knowledge of Grif as a person.

That leaves Grif confused but in a happy way. It’s not just the drugs that make him grin like a madman.

Simmons smiles back. “You missed a lot while you were sleeping,” he says and squeezes his hand.

Grif can live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Another finished fic! Look at my WIP number going down. I hope you guys enjoyed! This fic was a bit random but I had much fun.
> 
> take care <3

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe a fic about Grif dying has this much humor in it.
> 
> Anyway, I know I have too many WIPs but I've not been doing that well recently, and my focus is all over, and I finally found the will to write something, and that something turned out to be this. Support is appreciated.
> 
> As always: English isn't my native language and I can be found as riathedreamer on tumblr and twitter.


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